Compromise, Spoon With Me
by bhanesidhe
Summary: Prompt/Request; "Lydia is sick and Stiles takes care of her." [helping stydia-fanfiction on tumblr fill 100 requests in before S5 premiere (in 18 days). this is 2nd of 3 prompts.]


"I told you, I tripped."

"You never trip," said Stiles, following Lydia down the hallway.

"It's the shoes," argued Lydia moving with a pace of primness, oversized purse hanging off one arm, books in the other with her hair whipping a path behind her.

"I've seen you practically outrun the bulls of Pamplona in those shoes," Stiles skipped steps to keep up with her and when she stopped short he nearly slammed into her.

"That's wha-" she stayed in a doorway caught up in stray thoughts, her eyes drawn to students shuffling pass. "Why are Pampli- Pamplonian bulls wearing Nine West? That's just crazy talk Stiles."

"Okay, Lydia either you're suffering symptoms of a concussion or-" he stepped into her field vision.

"Or?" she groaned, either rolling her eyes or struggling to bring him into focus. It was a close race.

"Or you have a fever."

"Are you being serious? If I had a fever would I come to school?"

"If you thought you had to, yes!"

"Of course I had to," then she sagged slightly against the doorframe "Who else is going to hold up this wall?"

"Whoa," Stiles rushed forward and caught hold of her shoulders to keep her from sliding to the ground. They stepped through the doors together and onto the school steps. She breathed deeply and squinted against the sunlight, straightening upright in rebellion of gravity.

"I think I might need to go home," she brushed off his hold and marched down the steps toward student parking. "I'm feeling light-headed."

"You've got to let me drive you," Stiles half-jogged alongside her, partially backward and nearly tripped over a bench.

"No, that's okay but do you think you could take me home before you do?"

"But I jus-" confused, Stiles shook off the instinct to correct her before another argument erupted. "Sure. I will drop you off home before I go and drive you home."

"Thanks." In a superior nature distinct to Lydia, she shoved her books into his arms, placed her oversized purse on top, put her keys out for him to grab and waited beside the car for him to open the door for her.

* * *

Half way home, tucked low in her heated seat while the car drove at a steady pace and trees whooshed pass, Lydia woke with a start.

"What was that?" she twisted around to look for the source of her upset.

"You were snoring," amused, Stiles watched her through the rearview.

"I don't snore," she said, her tone that of repulsion.

"You certainly were capable of it," he grinned but kept his attention on the road ahead. "Very, very, very capable of it."

Lydia flipped the visor down and ran a finger under her eyes to clear away smudges of sleep that were entirely imagined, while she simmered in displeasure.

"It's due to the nasal cycle," she explained. "Some people only breathe through one nostril at a time. They say it improves the sense of smell."

"Of course it is," Stiles nodded, eyebrows rose in feigned interest.

"Every 4 hours the swelling in the first nostril goes down restricting the flow of air," her tone sharp as she snapped the visor closed.

"Are you sure yours didn't just collapse?" he suggested sagely as he pulled up to the front of her home. Having underestimated the summit to her front door, it was probably best to leave her books for a second trip.

"It's not my fault my left nostril is restricted," she pouted followed by a loud sniff. "Or it's my right. I'm not exactly sure," Lydia started to rub her face as if she were trying to force it to stay on.

"Well, I'll let you solve that mystery while I find the key," he suggested while he braced an arm around her waist, leaning her weight against him.

"I didn't bother locking it. My Mom's at a conference and I couldn't find my keys," she explained when she reached to push against the door and tripped slightly, the same sort of tripping that had worried him earlier.

Stiles looked down at the car keys he still held. The house keys were attached.

"Let me take your coat," after they fumbled through the door, he began to remove it.

"Where?" she twisted out of his chivalrous gesture and suddenly stood against the wall opposite, hair tousled, eyes glaring and coat hanging around her elbows.

"Hall closet," he explained, both hands rose as a gesture of surrender, "If that's okay?"

Lydia answered with a silent " _Oh_ " and turned so he would help her shed the coat. From the hallway table she analyzed him slip her pea coat onto a hanger, (delicately) button it closed, open the closet door, hang it onto the bar and (softly) click close the closet behind him.

"Are you always this suspicious of people?" he virtually whispered in response to her perilous gaze.

"Are you always this suspicious of people being suspicious?"

"Yes," he answered as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh. Well, then yes," deflated, finding his answer acceptable, she marched away.

Stiles considered leaving. He saw the small bowl on hall table where he should leave the keys. If it was a 24 hour bug she's was already maybe a quarter of the way through. A bit of bed rest, fluids and the fever would ideally break. But she had asked for his help. Well, technically she had just asked for him to take her home. But then she hadn't asked for him to leave.

Stiles hung up his jacket.

* * *

The kitchen island was as far as Lydia made it before she needed to use her hands to prop up her head and the table to prop up her hands and the counter to keep her from toppling over. Fortunately marble tabletop was generally well known to prevent someone from spinning off of the earth's surface.

"Do you want me to make you some tea?" Stiles searched around for mugs to make comfort drinks.

"Coffee?" she asked hauling herself up from a stupor. It took a moment for surprise to catch up with her at finding him puttering around her kitchen.

"Do you want to stay awake?" he considered, as he offered two mugs for her to choose from. Lydia pointed to the one with the chip on the edge and the stains from too many caffeinated nights studying. He nestled it into her hands and kept the pristine white mug with gold filigree.

"Yes?" Lydia answered then thought better, "No?" glanced down sadly into the empty mug. "I don't know. A hot drink would probably exacerbate this fever blister though," and she hooked a forefinger into her cheek like a hook went into a fish's gob.

"Okay," Stiles tried to hide a laugh behind a cough. He sincerely wished he had a camera, "let's review; you knew you had a fever and yet for some freakishly unknown reason you went to school anyway?"

"What was I going to do? Stay home?" Lydia looked bereft when he pulled the mugs away.

"Yes!" he hadn't meant to smack the mugs onto the counter.

"Stiles!" she shouted back at him. He spun around, half expecting to fight an enemy. "Don't scream at me! I'm sick."

"Right, sorry," he rubbed his forehead.

"Only I get to scream," she said smugly.

Stiles rolled his eyes and returned to scavenging the cabinets for food. Their eyes simultaneously lit up when locking on a ready-make package for Thai Chicken Coconut Soup.

"Give me some of that."

"Nope," Stiles' statement fueled by visions of holding back her hair while she vomited milky white foam and chicken bits and he'd sympathy vomited throughout the foreseeable future. "Feed a cold, starve a fever," he moved onto the next cabinet.

"I'll really scream," she threatened from a way off, followed by a thud against the countertop.

"Suddenly I'm having a glimpse into what being your childhood friend must have been like. I'm not really regretting missing much. Lydia?" He smacked closed the cabinets and circled around to face her. He realized her silence was due to her forehead finally having succumbed to the welcomed cool surface of the kitchen counter.

"Hey, drama queen," he came to her side. Peering over her shoulder, he could barely make out her pained expression through the tendrils of her hair. "I can make another soup. It's not that big a deal. Lydia?"

"Hmm," she hummed in weak agreement.

"You good?" he asked as if trying to will it into fact.

"Dizzy."

"Want to go lay down? I don't know maybe, in a bed?" he placed his head on the counter beside hers. He hoped seeing 'eye to eye' would encourage her. It made her smile if nothing else.

"'kay," she sounded miles away.

"You are not moving," he sat up by example and tugged gently on her arm, which felt mildly clammy and warm to the touch.

"You are observant," she pillowed her arms around her head, one degree closer to unconscious.

"Is there something else-" he felt a captive audience to her misery.

"Could you stay?" suddenly she was upright, groggy and near his face. Nose-to-nose.

"Uhm, you want me to?" he gulped. This felt all too familiar.

"Yes please, stay," her eyes were glassy but bright even in the dark.

"Sure," he added when his voice regained its proper pitch "for a little."

Lydia slid off the stool and stared up at him anticipatorily.

Stiles cleared his throat. "We can do a 'To Do List'; Meds, Call Your Mom-"

"Stairs," she pointed toward it, signifying they should move that way.

"Right," Stiles nodded. He ticked off a third finger. "Water," lots of it.

"Sure, but-"

"Missing homework, Pillow fluffer, fluffing I mean-"

"Stiles, upstairs," she snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "Now!"

"Yeahsure'course. Iknewthat."

The path up to her room turned from a hall to a tunnel, from a stairwell to a cavern and Stiles edged along behind her, close enough to become her backbone. There was no turning back.

* * *

Although Stiles had earlier agreed to help, even listed off what he should 'to-do', suddenly in the midst of all things Lydia he felt out of his depth.

"Could you pass me something from over there?" she asked from the edge of her bed, rubbing her bare feet along the carpet.

"What?" Stiles jumped and began to mentally catalogue all the items she owned. Notebooks. Hair ties. Stuffed animals. More Books. Photos.

"Pajama pants," she pointed to a grey cotton bundle abandoned by the foot of her dresser.

"Oh," he handed them over. "I'll just go-"

"Just what?" she didn't hesitate unraveling them. She pulled them on underneath her circle skirt and adjusted until they were comfortably placed. A second later she unclasped the skirt and dropped it to the floor. He was surprised to notice that bleary-eyed, in her drawstring camisole and pajama bottoms she was quite ready for bed.

"Oh, that was... concise." Stiles couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

"Mm, that's a word," Lydia noticed and smirked at him. "I'm hot."

"That's also a word," Stiles smirked in return.

"Stiles, I feel hot," she corrected, sweeping her hair off of her neck and into a loose bun.

"You should still get under the covers. Do you have a favorite comforter or a comfy pillow to help you relax?"

"No," she shoved decorative pillows off the bed, leaving her with virtually none. He insisted on fluffing the remaining one anyway.

"I've had this one pillow since I was little and can't sleep without it."

"You should have brought it."

"What?" Stiles did a double-take.

"My head is hammering. I could use it right now."

"Maybe some other time," he dropped down beside her and continued to tuck her in. "Would reading a book help?"

"Studying helps."

"No dice," he shook his head. He reached for the laptop on her nightstand, "I could put on a movie for you."

"Too noisy," she sighed and flopped over to lie on her back. Rolling her eyes, she demanded "just talk."

"Suddenly speechless," worry clouded his mind. "Music?" he offered and pulled up an app on his phone, she conceded with a nod, only the nod dislodged something inside her. Lydia's head dropped forward and she collapsed into unconsciousness.

"So, what per se are you into?" asked Stiles. He was answered by her delicate snores. "Lydia? Déjà friggen vu."

* * *

Curled up on the floor by the top of her bed, Stiles pondered the big questions; go in for another round of Chess Live on his phone or text Scott to ask what he was having for dinner, when suddenly Lydia's voice penetrated his skull shaving off a few years of his life.

"Is there somewhere else you need to be?" she asked quietly.

" _What?!_ Sorry, what?" he shoved his phone into his jean pocket, "Nope. Just letting people know I've got nowhere else I'm going to be, just here, just you and just me."

"How late is it?" groggily, she tried to regain her bearings.

"You've only been asleep for 30 minutes," he smiled. "Everything's okay. Hey, you're trembling."

"Now I'm feeling a little chilly," she muttered through clenched teeth.

"I'm going to get a thermometer," he jumped to his feet and then spun around. "Where's a thermometer? Never mind, I'll find it!" He rushed into the bathroom across the hall from her bedroom, where he not only discovered the thermometer but aspirin. Lots and lots of aspirin bottles.

"101.2º" he announced after a full minute of holding it under her tongue.

"I don't like that," her nose scrunched up.

"Me neither," he placed a hand on her forehead despite already having the answer in specific degrees. Stiles pushed loose hair back from her eyes while he wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow, he worried over exactly what had been going on in that complicated and gifted head of hers. "Hey, question, how long have you been feeling sick?"

"Since I woke up this morning, why?" she caught his hand as he pulled away, a determined look prodding at him.

"No reason," he smiled and squeezed her hand for assurance sake. "Follow up question; are you using all that aspirin in the bathroom to cut quantities of cocaine or for like organic gardening uses maybe?"

"I get migraines. Bad ones I guess. Sometimes after dreams. Vivid ones."

"Oh," feeling equally parts worried and relieved he placed her hand under the blanket.

"Any other questions?" she rolled onto her side towards him.

"Yeah," he sighed deeply with an air of drama "do you want some water?"

* * *

Lydia gulped down three glasses before she lay back against the headboard.

"How're you feeling now?" eyes wide in shock, Stiles took back the empty cup.

"Sick, Stiles. I feel sick. You can go home if you want," she grumbled. She sounded more aware but crankier too.

"Sure. Or I could stay," he avoided eye contact when he offered.

"Stiles," even flush with fever, her mind caught onto a scheme.

With a sigh he admitted "my Dad brought over my pillow and some other stuff plus you've got this big untried expanse of carpet here," he gestured broadly.

"Who said it's untried?" she crossed her arms and scowled at him.

"Ew. I. What?" Stiles gapped, stepped back and while squinting realigned his train of thoughts.

"Prada sleeps there all the time."

"You're little dog, right," he sighed in relief.

"Sweetheart," her tone icy, "since you've taken care of everything, where _is_ Prada? You have let her in, haven't you?" she rested her chin on a finger as a single brow went up in critical thought.

"Of course I have," Stiles stepped back further toward the bedroom door. "I'm going to go and do something entirely unrelated right now and bring you back something distracting."

Once he left Lydia grinned, curling under the covers, fell back asleep quickly and easily.

* * *

Stiles wasn't asleep but he wasn't awake. And he certainly wasn't staring but he was on point when she rolled over and searched the room for him, looking anxious until she spied him sitting by the window.

"Hey," Lydia said groggily, squinting to see him in the dark. She noticed the change of attire into a dark T-Shirt with the lunar cycle printed on it in grey, paired with black sweats all very cozy except his hair had flecks of dirt in it.

Stiles pressed his lips together, glaring even as he handed her an aspirin along with a cup of juice. She sat up and downed it as if she had just crossed a great desert. She blinkingly took in the rest of the room, adjusting to the night setting in. She also noticed his sneakers and jeans were lumped by her dresser covered in mud she could only assume were from searching for Prada in the backyard.

"Say, any chance your Mom took the dog with her?"

"Yes," she smirked and handed him back the cup.

"Did the fever make you confused-"

"No," she made a single syllable word lengthy. Her smile was twice as long.

"Ah," her grin was contagious. Even under the weather, Lydia made it clear; he could only stick around if she wanted him around. And Lydia gets what Lydia wants. "Are we good now?"

"What was the something distracting you brought me?" she remembered and demanded.

"So much less funny than I first thought it was?" he conceded.

"What is it Stiles?" she pushed off the quilt, which he took as a signal to bring her the throw from the back of his chair and to fluff her pillow, as promised.

"I'll just bring the laptop over and we should watch something on Netflix," he dragged the chair over and placed the laptop on the bed between them.

"You promised me something distracting," she insisted.

"Promised isn't explicitly what I had said."

"I swear if my throat weren't too hoarse," she again implied the threat to scream.

"Funny you should say that," he hung his head in defeat, reached under the bed and rummaged through his backpack. Her lips pressed together, her expression sliding from expectant to impatient. He heaved a sigh and handed her the box set.

"Scream; trilogy?" she turned it over in her hands. She wasn't much for scary movies. Life was intense enough. "They made three of these?"

* * *

After finally having managed to pass out, Stiles woke due to Lydia's fitfulness, cringing and hands wringing at the corner of his pillow followed abruptly by her restrained giggling. She went on to watch the second film without him.

"You fell asleep," she paused the film when she realized he was staring.

"Hey," he tried to save some face, "but you were also asleep last time I looked." A shift in weight sent him sliding between the chair and the bed, plummeting all of three inches to the ground despite his flailing effort to keep aloft.

"Go back to sleep," she pulled at his shirt until he scooted fully onto the bed. The crick in his neck was the demanding influence to settle beside her.

"You first," he insisted.

"I'm restless and achy."

"Ah, you say that but then boom, Comatose."

"Really?"

"Every time we start talking."

"I wonder what the common denominator is," she looked pensive (it was a trap) as she set aside the laptop. Stiles started to think of a witty-reply but thought better of it.

"I can get you something," he leaned up against the headboard. "I'll get you something," he insisted, "Did you need something?"

"No!" her eyes narrowed, insisting for him to just ' _stop fidgeting already_ '. She tucked half of the throw around him.

Without the glow of a laptop or the sound of music from his phone, with the lateness of the night he was left with one undeniable fact. Things were very quiet. And when things are very still, by comparison everything else is deafening. Like the notable difference between her breathing when awake and her breathing when asleep. Or wisp every time he readjusted his neck or this arm or that leg slowly inching his way toward comfort.

"Why don't we sleep over?" she asked eventually a million years later in what could only have been a minute.

"We are sleeping over," he answered, his voice sounded close but also further away.

Lydia pushed on, "I mean have sleepovers."

"Because we don't have sleepovers," he opened his eyes eventually. While his eyes adjusted it seemed she appeared from shadows; a soft landscape of throat, shoulder, sniffling nose and pale mouth, eyes both reflecting and thoughtful, a face haloed with a shock of color coming loose from a messy bun still something of strawberry even washed out by moonlight.

"But we could."

"Could we?" he squinted at her in disbelief, unsettled at how easy it was for her to draw him in.

"Allison and I'd study until late, and we would just fall asleep," she bit her lower lip. "We could do that?"

"We could," he broke the gaze first. Which of them was she trying to kid?

"Why don't we?"

"Because it's not the same, is it?" he heaved a sigh and he closed his eyes... afterward, he counted to 10. When he looked again, her eyes wandered but still watched him. With the window to his back he couldn't have been more than a silhouette, a shadow to her moonlight. He couldn't understand; his face was a Monet of flecked shadow and drawn freckled skin.

"No, it isn't," she answered eventually.

"Thanks though, for thinking about it even if it's because of a fever," he exhaled.

"You think I've only thought of you in my bed when I'm sick," she leaned up on her elbow, forcing him to face her.

"Well," he groaned, with a tilt to his head, a dark humor in his eyes. "There is a precedent."

"Your hopelessness has precedence," she huffed and dropped back, her frustration having outreached his by a mile and he smirked at that.

Abruptly, he sat up and handed her the sacred item, "here, use my pillow."

"You use it," she shoved it aside. She gestured for him to move around, "top to tails."

"You know that's a lie," although he followed her instructions and in doing so nearly rolled off the bed. "We still line up."

"For safeties sake," she made a face at his lewd inference. She reminded, "I'm probably contagious."

"Whatever it is you've got, if I were going to get it... I've already got it," Stiles swung around and wriggle toward the top of the bed until he loomed over her on his elbows, their positions switched from moments before. When he cupped Lydia's face she inhaled deeply, turning her cheek against his palm. "Plus, it feels like your fevers broken but you're still trembling a little."

Lydia scoffed, "that'll pass."

"Compromise, spoon with me." Stiles anticipated an ordeal, some haunting stillness or a biting word. Instead Lydia grabbed his hand and turned, pulling him down to lie alongside her. Beaming Stiles curled against her back until they were almost the same length. He snaked his arm around her, creating a living, hugging, body heater and leaving his left arm as a perfect pillow.

"You must be tired?" she asked because she wasn't, although she didn't want to move either.

"I'm okay," he yawned, verrry wide-mouthed. "Tired," he corrected himself. "I'm okay-tired," he said in small huff against her ear.

"Stiles," Lydia struggled against the tickle she felt by her ear and wriggled a little lower in his arms, tucking her head just bellow his chin. "Stiles?" she called up to him but saw he had passed out breathing those small breaths into her hair. "Thank you, for everything."

"Mmmhm," was a sort of reply.

Lydia lightly grabbed hold of his arms, laced them further around her and buried her face into a nook at his elbow, the throw tangled up where their limbs had yet to. Rest was inevitable, sleep was bound to follow and maybe they would stay linked together throughout the night. Or maybe they would wake up farther apart but just maybe he might realize he'd fallen straight to sleep without his favorite pillow after all.

* * *

The following morning Stiles woke alone in Lydia's bed, deeply tangled in her throw. The room was partly tidied, his litter (backpack, laptop, sneakers, mud-clad clothing, etc) the only blemish in an otherwise pristine environment.

He heard noises from across the hall and said good morning to the bathroom door. She peered through and said an abrupt " _Hi_ " that sounded like " _Goodbye_." He wasn't unprepared for her changed demeanor but he wanted confirmation.

"You look better," he noted. In top form. Very Lydia.

"I look like a mess," she turned away, pulled her hair loose and grabbed a towel off a rack. She spoke to him over her shoulder looking through the bathroom mirror, "I have to shower and change. How are you feeling?"

How do you describe " _everything feels...lighter but darker, funnier but sadder, different but very much the same._ " he yawned, "I'm going to head home."

Lydia said nothing and turned on the shower water instead so he closed the door between them and walked away. If that was an answer, he wasn't sure what question was it he had even asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

Stiles stopped at the top of the steps and called back to her.

"Lydia," Stiles thought about the last 24 hours, her tripping, snoring, head-desking, sticking her fingers in her mouth and drooling against the crook of his arm. And he couldn't help assure her "you always look good." If she heard him she didn't say.

* * *

Everything ached. Stiles had slept pretty damn well in Lydia's bed (confirming many youthful imaginings) but by the time he got home it felt as though every inch of him had been stretched to exertion.

When he didn't show at school Scott texted;

• Scott - "You okay? Did something happen?"

Stiles had to focus harder than he imagined necessary on a reply;

• Stiles - "Lydia happened. I need 24 hours to recover."

Not a lie. Not sure what sort of truth it was either. Stiles showered. Stiles hydrated. Stiles tried his bed. Stiles tried crashing in his Dad's bed. Stiles crashed downstairs under dozens of blankets while binge watching sitcoms. Nothing worked. The shakes had set in and his mind went foggy. When the fever set in, his Dad promised to check on him but Stiles made him promise not to take off work. If only he could sleep through the worst of it.

When another text went off it felt like a punch to the side of his brain; a knock came to the front door. Stiles hobbled to his feet.

• Lydia - "need your pillow?"

" _Ah!_ " now that made sense and Stiles had his first clear thought in hours. He had to make his way to Lydia. Maybe not a clear thought exactly but seeing her might, maybe ' _not_ ' hurt. Which seemed likely since everything hurt so what could hurt more?

Stiles focused on not only what-to reply but how-to reply since the screen on his phone periodically doubled. He still stared at his phone when he swung open the front door and Lydia stood on the other side. And suddenly he struggled to recall if delusions were a symptomatic of a 24 bug?

Lydia stood looking determined, lips pressed into a soft smile, bright eyes searching his for response. She wore her hair pulled back into a loose bun, a grey pajama top that hung off one shoulder which matched her pajama bottoms and silver ballerina slipper socks. More heroically she had a duffle bag hanging off one arm with his "Scream" box set bulging out of it, an unopened bottle of aspirin-for-cold-and-flu pressed into a corner and his favorite pillow shoved into the duffle bags depths.

She combed back his sleep flattened hair with her fingers while she wiped sheen of sweat from his forehead. Her face held the same analytical expression he was growing familiar with, the wordless concern of " _what am I going to do with you?_ "

"Sleep over?" Stiles grinned moving aside. Lydia kicked off her slippers and led the way upstairs.

"But I get to be the big spoon," his grin was contagious.


End file.
